Let Sleeping Dogs . . .
Feb 20 2021
Counter-clockwise.
The way she always turns,
tightly circling
as if spiralling in on herself,
nose glued to the ground
like a bloodhound on a scent.
Pawing
at the soft loose blanket,
unspooling it behind her
to leave a rumpled unmade bed.
How your own one looks
on those nights you toss and turn.
Then she curls up, nose to tail
and is instantly asleep;
her default state, it would seem
as natural as breathing.
As we are all creatures of habit.
Comforted by routine
and set to automatic,
although not nearly as cutely
or serenely unselfconscious.
She dreams, as well,
legs thrashing
strangled little yelps.
Recurring dreams, I imagine,
like chasing cars, and catching them
stinky things to eat.
As we all fantasize and dream,
before awakening to reality
tangled in our sheets.
“Well, what do you know—turns out he knew exactly what he’d do with a car if he caught one.”
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